


Staking Claims

by Bettybot (Lizbettywrites), Lizbettywrites



Series: The Ways They Said "I Love You" [7]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizbettywrites/pseuds/Bettybot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizbettywrites/pseuds/Lizbettywrites
Summary: Misfire has a plan. Fulcrum's just along for the ride.





	1. When I am dead

_Primus, did the loser just—_

Misfire stared, all but oblivious to the sparkeater gnawing on his arm, at the bomb falling through the air.

“Clear the area!” Tarn shouted. The DJD scattered. Misfire pressed himself to the ground as Kaon ran his way, but the blind mech was focused on his pet, scooping it into his arms and standing back up just as Fulcrum hit the ground. _Thud._

_Slag, and he just came back to life and everything. What a waste of a good chin._

As soon as the Peaceful Tyranny lifted off, Misfire was clambering back to his feet and heading for the crater. Had to save as much energon as he could if the K-classer was dead, after all.

_Sure hope he’s not dead, though, not after all that, standing up to the fragging DJD with that epic speech. Wonder if he meant the bit about us. Really moving. What a nerd._

_Cute nerd, though, even if he is a huge moron for even trying to pull that off in the first place._

Spinister reached the crater at the same time as Misfire did. Fulcrum wasn’t stirring.

Misfire locked gazes with his crewmate and winked. “Dibs on the chin if he’s dead; whole mech if not!”

Spin didn’t seem impressed, but at least he didn’t seem inclined to shoot. Misfire just grinned at him when the first pained groan escaped the mech below them. Score. Fulcrum’s optics flickered on, and Misfire knelt down to get a closer look at the damage.

_So much for being a huge fan of survival._

“What kind of a stunt was that?” he demanded, gaze roving over the K-classer’s thrashed body _and definitely not lingering anywhere whatsoever._

Fulcrum started to talk, but Misfire’s mind was already zooming off on a tangent.

_Now, what would be the best way to tell him that I’m gonna snap him up like the last energon goodie as soon as he gets on board the ship?_


	2. When we lay together on the fresh spring grass

“Primus below,” Fulcrum groaned, taking each step as slowly and carefully as he could and wincing every time regardless. “Krok, would it kill you to make a stop on a nice, _cyberformed_ planet one of these days?”

“Given the scarcity of trade outposts in this region, it might kill us all,” the captain replied coolly.

Crankcase’s alt mode puffed exhaust in annoyance. “Stop being such a protoform. They’re just plants.”

Fulcrum cringed as another bit of vegetation crunched under his foot. Thick, green leaves oozed their sticky fluids into his seams. He could feel the cool, viscous wetness seeping into his gears. Ugh. Words could not describe his disgust.

“Hey, hey, hey, Krok, Crankcase, pinhead, wait up!” A magenta shape zoomed toward them from the direction of the ship.

“Oh, great. Spinister must have let him out,” Crankcase grumbled.

Misfire barely finished transforming before he slammed into Fulcrum’s chest, toppling him backward—onto the awful plants.

They gave way under him, making that sickening crunching noise a million times over and spreading their revolting goo over his back plating. Probably staining it green, too.

“ _Misfire_!” he shrieked, indignant beyond coherence.

The jet beamed down at him. “Hiya, loser! Thanks for the catch! You might wanna brace yourself better next time. Just a tip!”

Fulcrum could only glare his ire. It had no effect.

Misfire was busy looking him over. “You’re filthy, you know that? I mean, we’re all filthy, but you look like you’ve been _rolling_ in this organic stuff!”

“No kidding?” Fulcrum ground out.

His unitmate nodded earnestly. “You need to hit the washracks bad.” Red optics flared brightly. In a whirl of motion, Fulcrum found himself tossed up and landed atop Misfire’s alt mode. “Hold tight, pinhead!”

Well, at least he was off the surface.


	3. Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey

“Who’s my favorite bomb? Issit you? Issit you? Yeah, it’s you, handsome!”

“Quit it, Misfire! Get off of my lap!”

Fulcrum’s demand was met with half-compliance (Misfire wasn’t that stupid; he edged over to sit more on the arm of “their” chair) but a renewed wave of mush. Misfire prided himself on his mushiness. After months of pulling this kind of scrap, he had his favorite loser on the ropes. Fulcrum was obviously getting more irritated by the second. He had to be catching on by now.

“You’re my ooey-gooey energon treat,” he gushed in the techie’s audial, noting the minute twitch under Fulcrum’s left optic, “my sweet-snappy rust stick, my—” whoops, now he was getting hungry— “—my Hedonian sunset, the light of my—”

Fulcrum (finally) snapped. He shoved Misfire off the chair. The jet snagged his armor as he went down, dragging Fulcrum with him. Oof. Even disarmed, K-class packed a lot of mass under that brittle armor. Fulcrum yelped, but he stayed on top, pinning Misfire to the floor. Oh yeah, he’d caught on.

“Are you gonna ravish me?” Misfire asked innocently, batting his optics. “Took you long enough, pinhead.”

Something devious gleamed in Fulcrum’s optics. He leaned forward until his mouth almost touched Misfire’s audial (Misfire held very, very still) and purred, “Mine.” Misfire’s engine stalled.

_Loser really is full of surprises. How the turntables._


	4. On a post-it note

It was the rustling that tipped him off to something being wrong. Fulcrum stretched as he came online, and soft, crinkly noises sounded from every angle. Something—multiple somethings—were stuck to his armor, and those somethings became clear when he sat up.

Krok’s labels. Dozens of them. They clung to his helm, legs, elbows, chin... everywhere. Labels bearing cramped glyphs that said… Fulcrum held a hand up to his face to examine the label on his palm.

 _Property of Misfire._ Huh. This unit had gathered the weirdest Decepticons he'd ever met, but Decepticons they were. It was disguised as a stupid prank, but the concept behind it was familiar.

Ugh. These were going to be a glitch to find and remove. Especially the ones he could feel sticking to his back kibble. How the frag had he gotten them onto Fulcrum’s back? “ _Misfire_!”

The jet was in the cargo bay when Fulcrum finally located him.

“Hey!” He stalked forward, fully intending to give him a piece of his mind (and maybe his foot as well) and stopped short when Misfire turned around.

Slapped haphazardly to each wing just shy of his brands, were two more labels. Krok would throw a fit to see how many had been used up on this, but Fulcrum couldn't summon back his irritation.

Not upon seeing the scrawl of his name marking Misfire’s wings.


End file.
